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Bob Maddox

Bob is a retired teacher living in the Alpujarra for most of the year with his wife Belinda. His interests include painting, photography and of course writing. He researches his articles meticulously and always manages to include his own brand of humour. Whatever the subject they are ‘a good read’. He has been a keen supporter of the Moor Times and has contributed many interesting pieces since its conception in September 2009.

 

 

 

Articles by Bob Maddox       

 

Unwelcome Guests

Some men, so I've heard, attract women.  I, on the other hand...in addition to dogs and children....attract flies.  Flies of every possible denomination will by-pass all other living creatures (and sometimes even dead ones), in order to get to me.  I’ve really no idea why, but I suspect it may have something to do with pheromones.  Apparently, flies like pheromones and even a microscopic amount draws them like, well, like flies.  Imagine a tiny drop of water small enough to fit on the head of a pin. Now divide that by 1000 and you are left with a droplet weighing about 0.004 micrograms and quite invisible to the naked eye.  Scientists have discovered that in female flies, this amount of purified sex hormone will attract 500 - 1000 male flies from 150 feet in just 5 minutes.  Some scientists have all the fun.

 

It’s roughly the same with me.  All I need do is take of my shirt, or better still, socks, to become utterly irresistible to a fly.  Aided by this affliction, I have discovered a number of new species of Spanish fly previously unknown to science. The first I have named The Alpujarran Just Below the Middle of the Shoulders Driller Killer Bastard Fly after its habit of being one.  These creatures have a rather specialised habitat.  In fact, they are only ever found in the vicinity of a copiously sweating topless male.   

 

Commonly, the victim will be engaged in a series of DIY manoeuvres which require a  combination of extreme dexterity, concentration and absolute precision. Qualifying activities include things such as taping together live electrical connections in conditions of extreme humidity; swinging a large hammer at a 14mm long nail held nervously between 15mm thick thumb and forefinger, or attempting to remove a large golden Preying Mantis from the area of the bedroom ceiling directly above your pillow.  These are all activities which generally require the victim to be perched atop a vibrating ladder with arms and legs spread wide in the Starfish Position in the interests of maintaining balance.

It is at such interesting moments that the Alpujarran Just Below the Middle of the Shoulders Driller Killer Bastard Fly  homes in on the minutest trace of any  “Oh Bugger Me I’m In Trouble Now But I’ll Be OK If Only I Can Hold Perfectly Still” pheromones released by the victim in industrial quantities.  These are exuded mainly around the upper shoulder and cervical region and are transported by sweat to just below the middle of the shoulders, an area, curiously, for which there is no known anatomical name.  So let's call it the  Just Below The Middle of the Shoulders. This place also has the distinction of being the only spot on the human body which is unreachable in an emergency without the use of tools.  If you are unsure where yours is, try this simple locating exercise.

 

Pretend that there is a strange type of emergency which needs you to act with lightening speed and flail your limbs around, while simultaneously demanding   complete stillness (in the interests of not falling off a ladder for instance).  Now, with your right hand, reach over your right shoulder and quickly smack as far as possible down the centre of your back.  Then, with your left arm, reach up under your left shoulder and slap as high as possible up the centre of your back. You will find that there is a small unreachable sensory vacuum approximately twice the width of a fly, located between the fingertips of your right and left hands.   

 

Congratulations, you have found your very own Just Below The Middle Of The Shoulders -  the realm of the Alpujarran Just Below the Middle of the Shoulders Driller Killer Bastard Fly.  Here, in this attractive, unreachable sanctuary, they are free to crawl, lick, suck, dig, buzz, itch, bite and burrow – all in the sublime knowledge that you are probably up a ladder in the Starfish Position and hence, completely buggered.

 

And so it is that just when the only thing on your mind is that tricky extra stretching movement out to that now cornered and increasingly irritable Mantis (which suddenly looks less like a harmless example of an exotic and fascinating conversation piece and more like an extra from ‘Alien’ the size of a Ford Cortina); just when you reach it, just when you risk leaning out from the ladder far enough to finally get that trembling pint glass into the trapping position….ZAP!  It arrives.  The Alpujarran Just Below The Middle Of The Shoulders Driller Killer Bastard Fly.

 

There are two possible outcomes and one certainty which arise from this situation.  The possible outcomes are that you either fall off the ladder, or you don’t.  The certainty is that you get neither the Mantis nor the Bastard Fly.

 

The second variety I have called the Einstein-Hawking Transit Fly since it is able to travel faster than light and exploit hyper-dimensional wormholes in space.  These are things which its famous namesakes,  Albert and Stephen, could only wildly theorise about, but which are simply second knowledge to the E-HTF.  It is through the use of the multitudes of hyper-spatial back doors, trapdoors and chutes which riddle our reality, that the Einstein-Hawking Transit Fly contrives to pull-off the fascinating trick of being everywhere, yet nowhere, simultaneously.  

 

Swat an E-HTF on your forearm and it instantly vanishes to reappear miraculously on your forehead, foot, nose or boiled eggs and toast. This  astounding feat, it achieves by exceeding the speed of light and so arrives at its new destination before actually having left its old.  The reason for this may be tied in with something called Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. Named after its proposer, a guy called Heisenberg, this basically states that by the time you know where the fly is, it is actually somewhere else.  

 

Now this is obviously a severe impediment to successful fly-swatting and in severe cases, can result in a frenzy of arm waving, slapping, spitting, swearing and head-banging as the victim spins out of control across the room.  Collateral damage at Casa Maddox has included broken glasses, spilt wine, overturned furniture and a slipped disc.

 

The Spanish solution to the problem of the E-HTF is to tightly close all doors and windows and fill the whole time-space continuum of the house with poison, before smoking a strong cigarette then settling down with wine, bread, ham and olives to watch television.

 

Research has shown the common house fly takes off by springing backwards. Now this is a habit which can be exploited by aiming your swatter to at a point about 2 inches to the rear of the offending fly and I’ve had huge success with the standard house fly using this technique. However, The Einstein-Hawking Transit Fly offers no such vulnerabilities to exploit.  I have actually seen one swallowed-up beneath a descending swatter.  It was undoubtedly still sitting immobile on the edge of the dinner plate when I smashed it – so how come it watched me slowly lift the swatter and peer underneath for its flattened remains from 10 feet away stuck on the front of the fridge like a magnet?

 

Thankfully, the Einstein-Hawking Transit Fly, like its lesser cousins, only puts in an appearance between April and November.

 

During August and September of our third year in Yegen,  another new species hit town -  The Quantum Midge.  Until then, with its mountain climate and swiftly running streams, Yegen had been remarkably free from the mosquitoes and other blood seeking types which infest the areas around the sultry coastal salt-marshes with their high humidity and standing water.  

 

The distinguishing features of this little beauty are its microscopic size and its gigantic appetite.  Essentially, it's a molecule with wings on each side, a drill on he front and an insatiable lust for blood.  So tiny is it, that it scarcely seems to fly at all.  Rather, it drifts around in the slightest movement of air, using a quick burst of wing power just at the last moment to dock with its victim.  This almost complete lack of mass makes it astoundingly difficult to see and even harder to defend against. Swatting is useless.  The Quantum Midge is simply brushed harmlessly aside at the last moment - riding the pressure wave in front of the swatter in the same way a dolphin rides the bow wave of a ship.

 

Sprays are equally useless since they depended upon coating the offending creature with droplets of poison.  Since the Quantum Midge is smaller than the droplets fired at it, it   is able to manoeuvre through the cloud without making contact.

 

This minuteness gives the Quantum Midge a huge advantage in the stealth department.  Frequently, the first indication of an attack is the eruption of  large, white porridge-like pimples on the flesh of the victim.  These sting abominably and no unction, ointment, palliative or pill, was is able to alleviate the problem for a second.  

 

It was around the time that of my first contact with the Quantum Midge that I began to notice the appearance of a new street fashion in Yegen. It became common to see little sprays of basil tucked into a breast pocket, pinned to clothing near a shoulder, or worn in the hair.  Many of the men favoured a bunch tucked in behind the ear.  Jugs of cut basil began to appear in bars.  And then, after the fourth scratch-filled sleepless night sitting under a cold shower, the connection hit me.    The following morning I checked out my suspicions with neighbour Carmela.

 

Before we continue, it might be useful to introduce a little honesty into the language department, since my Spanish still leaves something to be desired.  In any conversations which follow,  I shall begin with what I think I have said and then follow this with what the listener actually hears.  Like this......

 

 

I say.......'Good morning Carmela.  I couldn't help noticing that many of the villagers are wearing fragrent basil at this time and since this coincides with the sudden appearance of a tiny blood-sucking insect, I couldn't help but wonder whether the two events were connected in some way.'

 

Carmela hears.....'Early excellent Carmela!  Herb of the green scentedness.  Many people why of the doing?  Basil!  Sooner than I see as the fly begin so sudden blood bitten.  I am  helpless wonderful of two joined possibles. Also?'

 

Carmela touched the little sprig of basil which adorned the lapel of her pink housecoat.  'Si Roberto. You must use this...Basil. It keeps them away from the ears, where they like to bite!'  And she pinched my left ear lobe and shook it gently, like she might a baby's.  'The blood is closer here.'  

 

The ears...yes, of course.  I pictured neighbours Luis and Vicente; their ears wreathed in basil and so many of the women with little green bunches set just at the side of their hair.  

 

When I returned from my morning walk, a pot of basil was sitting waiting for me on the doorstep, along with six tomatoes the size and colour of cricket balls. Carmela, bless her.   That night, following her advice to the letter, I garlanded the pillow  with basil, after the manner of warding off vampires with garlic. Confident in Carmela's village-craft, I threw wide the windows and cast aside the protective sheet I'd roasted under for the past four nights.  And then...I slept like a babe!

 

Forty-five minutes later I was bolt upright, staring wildly into the darkness and scratching like a scrapyard Alsatian.  Flick!  The light revealed a room full of tiny floating specks, with still more drifting in through the open window like stars adrift in the night.  I was covered in round pasty little domes, as though tiny mushrooms had suddenly sprouted all over me in the night.  The hordes of the Quantum Midge, sensing the lack of physical barriers and my careless abandonment of chemicals in favour of organic solutions, had arrived in their thousands for the feast.  They were everywhere, apart from on my wife Belinda, who appears to be mysteriously immune to insect attack of any kind.

 

The following morning, while searching the shelves of the village Coviran for insect repellent and soothing pimple creams, I found neighbour Luis standing at the till.  Amongst his other sundries, I noticed two electric insect  killers of the  the sort which plug into the mains and dispense killing vapours by evaporating a chemical liquid.  Now I confess right here that this disturbed me a little.  I found myself genuinely concerned that my friend Luis, who had helped and advised me on so many occasions might be about to squander his money on some ineffectual high-tech insect repellent.  Besides, this was a golden opportunity to impress the old codger with the depth of my knowledge of village ways and lore. So I advised him thus....  

 

'Hello Luis. I couldn't help noticing that you have two refills  for some sort of chemical insect repellent.  Surely an organic solution such as basil would be preferable?'

 

'Hello Lui$!  Notice I here that you do it twicely to repeat.  Why the two badness of things chemical repulsive insect fly?  Not for the nothing at of the anything is the goodness of naturalness of anything badder better? Basil?'

 

'Basil is good on tomatoes, Berto.'  Luis tapped the side of nose twice, his signal to me that he was about to dispense sound knowledge and that I had better listen.  'For insectivos  you need chemicals!'  And here, Luis held up an imaginary aerosol can, crooked his index finger twice and went, 'Fsst! Fsst!  Comprende Berto?'

 

I said yes, I comprendoed.

 

' And for the very small one in the night...this.'  He jiggled one of the little boxes.  On the front was a cartoon of a mosquito lying on its back with a red lightening jag through its abdomen.

 

So what about Carmela, Vicente and the others, I think I may have asked him.  Surely, they still swear by basil?

 

'Berto...Carmela, she has one of these in every room!'  Again, he held up his electric killer refill.

 

Yes, I thought...she would have.  Here it was again, this uneasy combination of a headlong desire to embrace the present but somehow, to retain the past.  This was so characteristic of the transformation which Yegen was undergoing...the same familiar story which was played out on my childhood council estate at Harss End, back in 1950's England.

 

When Luis and Vicente were children; before the days when they would return in triumph from Germany carrying the money which would change Yegen forever, they lived in relative poverty,  without electricity, sanitation, or domestic piped water.  Animals shared the house with them - the mule stabled below, the chickens and rabbits in the corral.  All of this poverty of course, had one particular common signature - the fly.

 

Those old houses with their dark interiors, unglazed windows and irresistible musky animals, must have been a paradise for flies.  And so flies intruding into the affluent present of the age of electricity, toilets, piped water and plentiful Euros, were an intolerable reminder of yesterday's poverty.  They had to go.  And how better than with chemicals...themselves a sign of the new affluence.

 

This odd juxtaposition of old and new was something I remembered well from my Harss End childhood; a time when rag mats sat over fitted carpets and our one new record (designed to spin at the new-fangled speed of 45rpm!), sat largely unused in its protective sleeve, ready to be brought out when mother felt the need to get one over on the neighbours.

 

But the past is a difficult dog to shift from the manger.  For all our rush to embrace the present, too hasty an abandonment of the past seems to bring with it  a certain unease.  A gentler passage is needed.  And so in today's Yegen, Basil still sits alongside electric zappers, aerosol cans, repellent creams and vapours.  

 

And Amalia polishes her new halogen hob and shows it visitors; but still cooks on the old gas ring.  And Mercedes, one generation further back still, cooks with sticks over an open fire and washes clothes in the mill stream - while proudly  displaying the new gas hob and the electric washing machine which her  grandson installed for her in that ancient, smoke-stained kitchen.

 

A week later, the Quantum Midge vanished entirely from Yegen and the  following year, there were none.   For the Quantum Midge it seems, is not a permanent resident of the village.  Like so many other tourists, it simply maintains a holiday home here in the Alpujarra which it visits every few years when the conditions are right.  

 

But flies are persistent beasts.  Like memories and traditions, they may fade into the background for a while; but they always return to sit alongside us in the present and remind us that another world lay there, just the other side of yesterday.  They'll be back.

 

And in case you are wondering - yes, I brought two electric zappers, just like Luis.  And yes, they knocked spots off the basil in the Quantum Midge killing department.  But it was the basil which scented my pillow and the basil which adorned the  ears, collars and hair of the people of Yegen.  It was the basil which made the village a more interesting place for a while.

 

Even if it was crap.

 

© 2010 Bob Maddox

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